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bumblebecc · 2 months ago

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the one where trinity santos knows that frank is using again, except he isn’t

Trinity knows something is up with Frank Langdon. She just does.

It starts when she walks in on a Monday with a truly horrific looking board. A massive carpile up handled by the nightshift has set them all back and tied up Ortho for the day. Good luck, all broken bones and potential amputations walking into the waiting room. It’s the first time she’s ever seen Dana look frazzled (apart from PittFest, but she tries not to think about that day too much. She puts it all in the Do Not Touch box that lives in the back of her brain). Robby is extra prickly because Gloria keeps popping up and jumpscaring everyone. Perlah’s daughter is turning ten next week and she’s making it a bigger deal than it needs to be (in Trinity’s opinion), so the normally restrained camp of Perlah and Princess is also stressed.

And Frank comes in basically skipping past the waiting room and freaking everyone out.

“Why all the glum faces?” Trinity hears him ask Collins.

“Have you even looked at the board today? It’s like Hell opened up overnight.”

“Never took you for a theater kid.” Trinity spares a look and sees Langdon languidly leaning on the nurse’s station. “So much drama. Nah, we’ll get this straightened up. Hey, look, you take South 15, he’s been here awhile. I’ll handle the rash and fever in North 5. We’ll get these beds opened up in no time.”

“Could’ve sworn you would’ve gone for the potential hernia.”

“Hernia, shmernia. McKay can have that one. C’mon, new attending. We have a waiting room to empty.”

Trinity sits up.

“You’re… optimistic today,” says Collins slowly.

“Ah, you know what they say.” Langdon smirks, snagging a pair of gloves as he leaves. “A cynic has to be an optimist at least some of the time.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Heather calls after him.

And Trinity would just chock that little interaction up to Langdon just being his normal brand of obnoxious if she hadn’t overheard Princess and Perlah in the breakroom.

“He smiled at me and told me to have a good day,” says Princess, audibly bewildered. “Has he ever done that to you?”

“No, but he asked me to tell Jamillah Roslyn happy birthday for her party,” says Perlah, bewildered. “I didn’t even know he knew her name.”

“Something’s up with him,” says Princess suspiciously and Trinity agrees. Parks it in her mind as she and the others steadfastly work through the onslaught of patients. Post-hysterectomy infection (and potential malpractice suit, the fucker didn’t prescribe the poor woman any antibiotics). A simple MI sent up to surgery in record time. A pulmonary contusion in an eight year old from a gnarly bumper car collision.

And then—

“Are you whistling?” Garcia asks, almost in disbelief.

“What, the patient is anesthetized,” says Langdon casually as he makes room for the ultrasound tech. “Don’t be knocking my bedside manner when the bedside isn’t awake.”

“Look,” says Garcia. “The Cure is low, even for you. At least do Bowie or Santana.”

“You would hate The Cure,” says Langdon and then whistles the first few lines of Smooth freakishly well.

“That’s more like it,” says Garcia.

“You treat me like a radio,” sighs Langdon. “Is that all I am to you?”

“Yes, especially because I am not needed here,” says Garcia. “Look at the head CT. Brain tumor. More than most likely caused the seizure. Far above my paygrade. He needs oncology and a specialized treatment plan, not emergency surgery.”

“Copy,” says Frank. “I’ll call up Blestner and get a consult.”

Garcia’s eyebrow slowly rises. “You’ll just ‘call up’ Blestner?”

“For a potentially glioneuronal mass that size?” Frank clicks his tongue. “Hell yeah I’m calling Blestner.”

“Blestner hates your guts,” interrupts Trinity. She’s too bewildered to stay quiet. “He called you a junkie and told you to put him on the phone with a real doctor last time.”

“And I went through the official channels and put in an HR complaint and everything’s been peachy since,” says Langdon, unbothered. “He loves me now.”

“Huh.” Garcia looks him over slowly. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“Indubitably.” And Langdon strides out of the room, already on his pager.

“Keep an eye on him.”

Trinity looks up, surprised.

Yolanda is smiling, but there’s a tension around her mouth that Trinity recognizes from that time when she forgot to wash the pan after making eggs. The this thing is out of my control smile. “He is in a really good mood,” she says. “Which might be nothing. But it also might be something. I haven’t heard him whistle since he passed the Step 3. And that was 2021, so.”

“You don’t think—?”

“No, babe, I don’t think. I just worry.” Yolanda glances behind her, makes sure no nosy RN is looking, and presses a quick kiss to Trinity’s cheek. That was also something Trinity had to get used to. Yo’s touchyness. It’s a plus, she knows now, but there was a time she would’ve dodged away, wary. Now, she leans in.

“My worrier,” says Trinity, grinning.

“Yeah, yeah.” Yolanda Garcia backs out of the room, smiling. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

And Trinity keeps a half-eye on Langdon, yeah. And maybe he’s a little too nice to Lupe, calling her a “badass” and then dapping up some random EMT after a successful code. But she’s not really concerned because she’s sure he’ll be back to his usual “I’m surrounded by idiots” self tomorrow.

Except he isn’t.

“He brought donuts,” says Mateo in the breakroom, looking like he’s seen a ghost. “And not Dunkin Donuts. Leonarda’s. The fancy shit. For Nurse Appreciation Week.”

“That’s not so weird!” Kim is sheepishly playing with her hair. “Dr. King gave me a personalized card.”

“Please call her Mel, Kim, no one calls her Dr. King and it’s lowkey a little weird that you do.” Mateo opens up one of the boxes (with gilded swirly writing on top, Trinity knows it’s bougie) and a heavenly smell envelopes them.

Donahue shakes his head. “This… this is some spooky shit.”

“Do you think this is like some NA thing?” Jesse asks. “Like, being nice to people?”

Trinity doesn’t speak, because being allowed in the nurse’s lounge is a privilege that gets easily revoked, but she thinks no fucking way to herself.

But then she kinda forgets about it because she’s pulled for Chairs. Bleh.

Flu case. Ten year old with influenza. Fifty year old with the flu. Eighteen year old with a headache and fever—influenza A. Seventy year old with—you guessed it—the flu.

“Fuck, I hate triage,” she tells the skittish med student who started last week. The name will come to her. Jessica. Jennifer. Something with a J? She’s red-haired, pretty in an effortless kind of way, and petrified of everything that moves and makes Trinity miss Whitaker, who matched into emergency medicine at Allegheny. “Don’t you want some action?”

“Huh?!” Jessica Jennifer Jayla blushes so hard, Trinity looks at her with concern. “No!! No I don’t!”

“Easy, easy,” says Trinity, undeterred. “So you like the boring ones?”

“Oh! You meant—“ the blush recedes and Jennifer Jessica Jaime clears her throat. “The cases. Yeah, uh, they’re alright. I don’t really like traumas that much.”

Trinity eyes her, slightly concerned. “Calm down, Mother Mary. I wasn’t asking you about your sex life.”

Jaime Joanna Jessica frowns. “My name is Julie.”

“Julieee,” says Trinity. “Cool. Just a joke.” And then she follows Julie’s eyesight, which is locked across the room to—Langdon, chatting with an EMT. “No way. He’s gotta be old enough to be your dad.”

“No!!” Julie is fumbling with her gloves. “He’s 33! And I’m 25!”

“You asked him his age?” Trinity says, absolutely delighted.

“He’s divorced!” says Julie. “It’s not a crime!”

“But it is definitely frowned upon. A resident and a med student, are you crazy?”

“You’re an R-2 with a new attending!” says Julie, suddenly fierce.

“Different departments, plus no one gives a shit.” Trinity could laugh. She could care less how Mother Mary knows about her and Garcia—probably a mouthy respiratory therapist or something. “Good luck with that HR violation, Julie. You should get some better taste.”

“What? He’s so nice. And hot. The day me and Yamaguchi started, he told us we’re on our way to being great doctors.” Yep, those are definitely stars in the med student’s eyes.

Langdon. Being overly nice to med students. An alarm goes off in Trinity’s brain. And she automatically says, “Yeah, he lies a lot,” and beelines straight to Robby, who is intensely charting and pretending not to notice a frequent flyer asking for a blanket (he has about five already). “Okay, is something up with Langdon?”

Robby slides his glasses down at her with intense scrutiny. “Let’s rephrase the question to something more specific, Dr. Santos.”

“He’s whistling in the ER,” says Trinity. “He’s happily doing all the shitty boring cases. He told Perlah to tell her kid happy birthday. He bought the nurses donuts for Nurse Appreciation Week. He’s being nice to med students. Med students. That’s weird.”

Robby sighs, slips off his glasses. “Maybe he’s just having a good day.”

“Try a good week.” And Trinity lowers her voice. “Look. Is it possible he’s relapsed?”

Her chief attending leans back in the chair. Clicks around on the computer for a minute. “Dr. Langdon’s drug screening results are private healthcare information that I cannot release to you, Dr. Santos. However, I can guarantee that as of this morning, Langdon is enthusiastically cleared to work in the ED.” He shoots her a look. “So whatever’s bothering you has nothing to do with his recovery. Okay? Conversation done.”

And Trinity stands there, frowning, because things aren’t clicking.

And they don’t until she bumps into Mel the next day.

“Heyyy, MelMel,” Trinity says, fresh off a Cliff bar break. “What the heck are you doing here? Isn’t today your day off?”

Mel beams, cute as ever with her hair up in two twin buns. It must be boiling outside, because she’s in little white shorts and her cheeks are pink from the sun. “Yeah, it is! But Becca and I stayed up late last night baking.” And Trinity does notice the brownie tray. “We might have gone a little overboard.”

“Ah. Baking.”

“Yes, Becca’s very into sourdough lately,” says Mel seriously. Trinity can’t help but have a soft spot for her. A tiny soft spot. “She’s been watching these TikTok videos. My kitchen is now her experiment station.”

“Ah. Your sister. Nice.” Trinity’s about to politely extricate herself from the conversation in favor of a patient when Langdon suddenly appears. And by suddenly, Trinity means he was on the other side of the room, and then he basically teleported to Mel’s side.

“Mel, what are you doing here?” He puts his hand on her shoulder like she’ll disappear otherwise. “Are you—oh! Nice shirt.”

It’s a normal shirt, light pink with a print of Hello Kitty waving. Mel smiles brightly. “Hi!! Yeah it’s—“

“Becca’s favorite,” Langdon finishes and they both laugh, even though it isn’t really funny, like it’s an inside joke. And then Langdon glances down at the tray and says, “Ah, the brownies, shit, sorry, I forgot you were going to bring those in.”

“Well, I felt bad, you got the nurses those fancy donuts and I only gave out cards.” Mel is—pouting? Not really, not in the exaggerated way Yolanda does to make Trinity give her attention, but actually genuinely. Mel’s mouth is a little downturned, her eyebrows are scrunched with mild displeasure.

“Stop, they’d take a card from you over anything from me any day,” scoffs Frank. “Donnie acted like I was trying to poison him. And I’m half fucking convinced Ramón thinks you’re an actual angel from heaven.”

“No, he doesn’t, we have a very good professional rapport,” says Mel.

“Bullshit, he likes you.” And then Frank… softens? Like all the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax and he leans down, looking at her with his weirdly intense eyes and Trinity feels like she walked in on something. And the hand, still on Mel’s shoulder, is sliding down, his long fingers curling softly around her wrist. “Maybe I can’t blame him, though.”

“Oh my god,” says Trinity and they both jump, like they forgot she was even there. “You’re getting laid. That’s why you’ve been so fucking weird all week. You’re boinking Mel.”

“Santos.”

“That’s not a very appropriate thing to say in the workplace,” says Mel, frowning. But she doesn’t deny it. Because they TOTALLY ARE.

“It all makes sense,” says Trinity in disbelief.

Like she knew they were close. Langdon gets her a hot tea from a cafe every morning (Robby always asks where his is and Langdon snarks, “The break room, hands off.”) And the way they follow each other around and bump into each other without comment. That one time Langdon handed her a hair tie when hers snapped during a procedure and her too-bright smile.

“The stupid whistling. The weirdly good mood. You bought donuts. Oh my god. Mel, you and him? For real?”

Langdon’s face is not a nice face. “Can you go one day with causing a potential HR crisis?”

“I know way hotter dudes I can hook you up with, Mel,” Trinity tells her, enjoying this way more than she should. “Like I’m not a man enjoyer, but there’s this guy from med school who all my hetero friends say is a god at eating puss—“

“Okay, enough of that,” says Langdon firmly, and his hand is on the small of Mel’s back, herding her away, and he’s scowling. But Trinity follows, she’s so delighted. Mel and Mr. Asshole? Together? That’s so gold, it’s like platinum level gossip. Princess and Perlah are going to die. “Don’t you have a patient to neglect or something?”

“Possessive much, Langdon?” Trinity waggles her eyebrows. “Or are you that shitty in bed that you’re feeling a little threatened?”

“Frank is very good at cunnilingus, Trinity,” says Mel over her shoulder and ugh, she calls him Frank? And Trinity regrets all the teasing, because she did not need to know that. Or picture that. “I’m very well satisfied, thank you.”

And Langdon is grinning, an evil smug horny grin that immediately takes the wind out of Trinity’s sails.

“I am so texting Whitaker about this.”

“Tell Dennis I said hi!” calls Mel as Langdon ushers her into the break room. Where they’ll probably make out or say lovey dovey words to each other. (Probably not. Mel is a classy lady after all).

“This hospital,” Trinity says and then rushes off to hunt down Garcia.

#kingdon #frank langdon #mel king #melfrank #trinity santos #my fic #melangdon #langdonmel #the pitt #fanfiction #fanfic

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shadow4-1 · 1 year ago

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I'm just imagining helping Gaz upgrade the firewalls on the personal tech of the 141, and accidentally catching glimpses of their search history.

Like, it's not like you're actively trying to look. But the program you're updating has to check all of the websites/servers the 141 has been perusing. If anything is compromised you need to know, Laswell needs to be informed, etc.

Despite his name, Soap's history is bar far the dirtiest and most extensive. His searches consist of pretty much everything that a normal weirdo guy would look up. You're able to ignore most of it but you notice he'd cleared part of his browser data at some point and well...you couldn't help yourself. You check and immediately regret it.

public airsoft fuck

gun tongue fucking

military boot cock stepping

You can't bear to see any more so you delete the rest of his search data for him and move on.

Gaz's search history is surprisingly very normal. You almost snort at how much of a difference it is compared to Soap's. You also come to the realization that he probably already cleared and deleted his history. Then you also realize he probably knows you're looking at everyone's history and probably chose to leave these behind. You feel your face grow hot as you glance down the very short list.

best friends bestfriend blowjob

next door neighbor anal

massage porn

You huff and keep going, next is Price. You breathe a sigh of relief, he only has a couple searches and none of them have demeaning expletives in them. You spare them a passing glance.

Paddling adult film

Thigh high models

You raise a brow. Thigh high models, you could understand, but "paddling"? Like...spanking? With a paddle? You swallow thickly and shake your head. The shibari makes you wince too. Figuring out your Captain was into rope bondage and spanking was too much knowledge for one person.

Shibari classes near me

And, just like you'd expected, Ghost had no search history. You breathe a sigh of relief and do a sweep of the rest of his phone. Nothing. No recently viewed caches, cookies, pictures, or anything. The phone was so well taken care of it might as well have been brand new. You went back to the main browsing page, but before you could close out the app, you notice the page has a bookmark. You open up the bookmark tab and low and behold, there's two links. They look shady but you check them out anyway.

The first one is a cam site. The host of the channel is offline, but judging by their many saved livestreams, they're very active. You decide to turn back, but a very specific thumbnail catches your eye. It's the cammer, but with their mouth stuffed full of a random man's cock. It wouldn't have stopped you in your tracks if a) the man's leg tattoo didn't look so familiar and b) if the cammer didn't look suspiciously like you.

You immediately clear all of the data on the phone, essentially factory resetting it. When Gaz comes back into the tech closet you shove at his chest. He just chuckles and shrugs.

You're never doing this again.

#cod imagines #mw2 #call of duty #mw2 headcanons #simon ghost riley #cod mwii #john soap mactavish #captain price #simon riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick

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marvelseries19 · 2 months ago

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RETURN TO YOU

Chapter Four - Castaway

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: You’re finally found. After years lost and alone, a faint signal is enough to bring someone to your island. You're brought home, weak, scared, and unsure if it’s real.

A/N: Finally, the moment you've been waiting for. I'm not entirely sure if this should be the end. I kinda have more ideas to tell, but maybe I'll post those as like one-shots or something. I wanted to thank you guys for letting me know that you liked it. I don't think I've ever had this much engagement on my fics. I really appreciate the love this one has had.

On another note, in the last chapter, I asked if you read this, and by this, I meant these messages, I leave here, not the chapter. So, once more, do you guys read these messages?? Also, as always, any questions, requests, ideas, and feedback are all welcome. Enjoy :)

Warnings: +18, descriptions of injuries and such.

Word count: 4.4k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The low hum of the SHIELD operations room barely registered as Maria Hill leaned over the dim console. The soft, rhythmic blinking on the screen in front of her was steady, consistent — unmistakable. A signal. Faint, primitive, but deliberate. Her fingers flew across the keys as she opened a secure channel.

"Get me Director Fury," she said, her voice low but urgent.

The line crackled before his voice came through, rough and clipped. "What have you got?"

Maria didn’t look away from the screen. "A signal. Old-school. Someone stripped a Quinjet transponder and spliced it into basic field tech. It’s broadcasting on an early SHIELD frequency — nothing sophisticated, but it’s clean. Repeating."

"That’s a long shot," Fury replied.

"Not if it’s her," Maria said, and there was something unshakable in her tone. "And I believe it is."

There was a pause. She could almost hear him weighing it in silence. Her eyes stayed on the blinking pattern, steady as a heartbeat.

"It’s the captain."

Fury’s silence stretched again — longer this time, heavier.

"You always did trust her instincts more than anyone else," he said eventually.

"She earned that trust," Maria murmured. And she remembered — the smoke, the fire, the chaos.

Kandahar.

—

The sky was dust-streaked and orange, gunfire painting the air in bursts. Agents scattered, wounded, shouting. No one had orders. The comms were fried. And then you appeared — ash-streaked, limping, blood on her sleeve, and calm in her eyes.

“We lost comms!” someone had yelled. “Do we pull back?! Where’s the fallback point?!”

Maria remembered how you didn’t hesitate. She remembered the way you moved — forward, always forward — as if gravity bent toward your conviction.

"With me," you said. That was all.

Two words.

And twenty agents followed you without looking back.

Maria hadn’t said it aloud that day — but someone else had. A younger recruit, clutching his rifle and running to keep up: “Captain’s got us.”

The name stuck.

—

Maria exhaled softly, her eyes never leaving the console. "She pulled twenty agents out that night. Half of them wouldn’t be here without her," she said quietly.

"Is she still alive, Hill?" Fury asked.

"She sent that signal," Maria replied. "I know it's her, and that’s all I need to know."

"Take a team," Fury ordered. "Get her back."

Maria was already on her feet. "Already working on it."

She shut the console off, leaving the weak, blinking signal behind — but only for a moment.

She would follow it. All the way to the end.

—

The quinjet dipped below the clouds like a shadow cutting through the sky, its engines whisper-quiet over the dense canopy below. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting streaks of gold and fire across the endless stretch of green.

Maria stood near the loading ramp, arms crossed, eyes scanning the horizon as if she could will the trees to part and reveal a miracle.

She’d barely slept on the flight over, fingers tight around the datapad that showed the narrowing coordinates. Each pass of the satellite brought them closer. Each sweep of the low-band signal narrowed the window.

Still, it felt like a dream.

Three years.

Three years with no trace.

Three years of dead ends, quiet funerals, and trying to help Natasha through a grief Maria shared but didn’t dare speak aloud.

And now this.

A single echo. A half-broken signal from a beacon no one was supposed to remember how to use.

She hadn’t told Natasha. Couldn't. Not yet.

Hope, Maria had learned, was dangerous when it burned too bright. And she wouldn’t be the one to light it unless she was sure. She had seen firsthand what it did to her friend , how it tore her apart each time a lead turned out to be false. Maria needed more than a faint signal to give Natasha false hope.

The quinjet hovered over the narrowed location, nestled between cliffs and jungle, and the team fast-roped down in practiced silence. Maria followed, landing with a solid thud against the uneven earth.

It was still. Too still. But the readings didn’t lie. Someone was here.

She signaled for the group to split. “Fan out. Sweep the perimeter. Eyes sharp. Weapons down unless you see a threat.”

A chorus of affirmatives crackled through comms.

They moved.

Not far away, tucked in the hollow between two rocks and overgrowth, you stirred.

The sound had been faint — a low thrum, like distant thunder.

It came again, closer this time.

You sat up slowly, your body protesting every movement. Your limbs ached. Your head spun. Your skin had taken on the leathery feel of too much sun and too little water. The weakened body you lived in now barely resembled the one that once trained at SHIELD’s academy. The one that flew the quinjet with quiet confidence. The one that could disappear without leaving a trace.

You had survived.

But barely.

You blinked hard, pressing your fingers to your ears.

Voices.

Were those voices?

You crouched low, instinct taking over even as your knees buckled beneath you. The sound of boots brushing leaves. A sharp rustle of brush being moved aside. You bit the inside of your cheek.

It’s nothing. You’ve imagined things before. You’d seen shadows become people. Branches become outstretched hands.

But the voices were growing louder now. Clearer.

“Check the cliffside—Hill’s got east.”

“There’s a trail here—looks like something’s been walking through.”

“Signal strength increasing. It’s close.”

No. No, that was real. That wasn’t just your mind trying to comfort you again. That was real.

Still, your body didn’t move. Not yet.

You sat frozen, heart pounding, as footsteps closed in.

And then—

“Hey!” a voice called. Not a hallucination. Sharp. Solid. Commanding. “I’ve got something—!”

Then another voice. Lower. Familiar. Too familiar.

“Stand down, it’s her—God—” The foliage parted, and there she was.

Maria.

Your mind couldn’t process it all at once. She was wearing tactical black, hair pulled back, eyes scanning like she didn’t dare believe what she was seeing.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything—but nothing came out.

Maria dropped to her knees, her voice thick and trembling. “Hey, hey—it's okay. It's me. I’ve got you.”

You blinked again, too weak to flinch as her hands gently framed your face.

Her breath caught. “Jesus… you’re really here.”

You tried to speak, lips cracked, throat dry. Only a rasp escaped.

Maria shook her head, a soft curse under her breath. She slipped an arm around your shoulders, guiding a canteen to your lips. “Don’t talk. Just drink.”

The water stung going down, but you drank like you hadn’t in days.

Because you hadn't. Rainwater could only last for so long.

Maria kept holding you, one hand steadying the canteen, the other pressed lightly against your back as if reassuring herself that you were solid. Real. Not another ghost.

And then she whispered, almost like she didn’t want anyone else to hear, "I'm so sorry it took this long.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You didn’t want to cry. Not yet. Not when it felt like the moment could vanish if you blinked.

But Maria didn’t rush. She stayed there with you in the dirt, surrounded by jungle, brushing a hand gently through your tangled hair.

“You’re safe now,” she said softly. “We’re taking you home. I’m gonna make sure of that. And I’ll tell her—I’ll tell Natasha.”

You didn’t know if it was the relief or her voice, but that’s when the sob broke free.

And Maria, strong as ever, just held you tighter.

The team moved quickly once they found her.

You were conscious, your body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline as they guided you through the undergrowth. The sight of the quinjet waiting on the shore hit you harder than expected.

Your steps faltered.

The air caught in your throat.

It looked almost exactly like yours—the one that went down in flames, the one that left you stranded and alone. Your chest tightened, breath hitching, muscles locking up as memories flashed behind your eyes. Fire. Smoke. The sound of metal tearing. The impact.

You stopped walking.

“Hey,” Maria’s voice was calm and soft. She stepped in front of you, eyes steady, hand gentle on your shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re taking you home.”

You shook your head weakly, barely audible when you said, “I can’t… I can’t get on that thing. I know it’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” Maria cut in, her voice rough with emotion. “After what you’ve been through, it makes perfect sense.”

Your eyes were glassy, full of apology and fear you couldn’t quite name. “I want to go. I just… I can’t.”

Maria glanced at the medic nearby, nodding once.

“We’ll help you sleep through the ride, okay?” she said, already crouching down with her. “No pain. No panic. You’ll wake up at the medical facility. Safe. I promise.”

You gave her the faintest nod, your fingers still gripping Maria’s sleeve like an anchor.

Maria stayed close as the medic prepped the injection, gently brushing damp hair back from your forehead. “You did so good, alright? You held on. We’ve got you now.”

The sedative took hold quickly, easing your breathing as your eyes fluttered shut. Maria caught you carefully as she slumped forward, guiding her into the medic’s arms and onto the stretcher.

And as the engines spun up and the quinjet lifted into the sky, Maria sat beside you, phone already in her hand, staring down at Natasha’s name on the screen.

It was time.

The quinjet hummed around her, steady and familiar. Maria sat strapped in beside the stretcher, her eyes drifting to you every few seconds — as if making sure she was still there, still breathing, still real.

You looked so small.

So fragile.

And it shook Maria more than she wanted to admit. This woman, who once sparred with her until both of them limped off the mat laughing… This woman who had stood beside her through firefights and missions no one else could have survived… Now she lies wrapped in blankets, sedated, ribs visible under her skin, lips cracked from dehydration.

Maria swallowed hard. She stared at the screen for a long second before finally pressing the contact.

The call connected after two rings.

“Maria?” Natasha’s voice came out sharp, tight. Tired. Like she’d been running or not sleeping again. “Is something wrong?”

Maria’s breath caught. “Natasha…”

Something in her tone made Natasha go completely still on the other end.

“We found her,” Maria said softly.

Silence.

“I need you to meet me at the SHIELD medical facility in New York. We’re bringing her in now. She's alive, Nat. She's—she's not in good shape, but she’s alive.”

Natasha didn’t answer at first. Just a breath — hitched, broken — and then, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ve got her right here with me.” Maria looked over again, lowering her voice instinctively. “She held on. Three years, and she never gave up.”

There was a long pause. When Natasha spoke again, her voice cracked.

“I’ll be there.”

—

The city blurred past the tinted windows of the SUV, but Natasha barely saw any of it.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the seat so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Every red light felt like a personal attack. Every second that passed without her at that facility made her heart pound harder in her chest.

You were alive.

Alive.

It didn’t feel real.

She had imagined this moment too many times — always in dreams, in cruel fantasies her mind would conjure when sleep finally took her. But this wasn’t a dream. Maria had called her. Maria had sounded shaken. That never happened.

Alive.

Natasha’s breath caught again, her throat tight with something she couldn’t name — hope, disbelief, fear. She didn’t even realize tears had started to run down her cheeks until they hit her jaw. She didn’t wipe them away.

Three years.

Three years of not knowing. Of waking up and reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Of closing her eyes and hearing your laugh, only for silence to greet her. Of rage. Of grief so heavy it felt like a second skin.

And now… you were back.

But at what cost?

She kept replaying Maria’s voice in her head. Not in good shape. Those four words sliced deeper than anything else. Natasha had seen the aftermath of war. She had seen what being stranded did to a person, physically and mentally.

What if you didn’t remember her? What if the pain of those years had buried the part of you that knew her name? What if the reunion she’d dreamed of — clung to — was nothing like the reality waiting for her?

The driver turned sharply, and Natasha gritted her teeth, leaning forward.

“How much longer?”

“Five minutes, ma’am.”

Not fast enough.

She closed her eyes. Forced herself to breathe. One hand unconsciously reached for the ring still looped through the chain around her neck — your ring — warm now from her skin.

She didn’t know what she’d find when she walked into that facility.

But for the first time in three years… she had something to walk toward.

You.

—

The quinjet touched down with a soft thud on the rooftop pad of the SHIELD medical facility.

Before the engines had fully powered down, the med team was already waiting — gurney prepped, portable monitors ready, gloved hands reaching for the ramp before it even dropped.

Maria stood to the side, out of the way but not detached. Her jaw was clenched, arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if holding herself together. She hadn’t said much since the sedation. Only that she’d call Natasha again once they landed. But she didn’t need to. The call had already been made. Natasha would be here soon. She knew it.

The second the hatch opened, the team surged forward.

You were still unconscious — sedated, peaceful in the worst way. Your skin looked pale under the harsh facility lights, your body far too light as they transferred you to the gurney. The bruises, the cuts, the ribs pressing too close to the surface — it was all too visible now.

Monitors were clipped to your finger, an oxygen mask gently pressed to your face, and soft commands echoing between the medics:

“Get her on fluids, stat.”

“We need a CBC and a full metabolic panel.”

“Chest X-ray, abdominal ultrasound.”

“She’s dehydrated; start with normal saline, keep it slow.”

The medics disappeared down the hall with you, swift and practiced, the sound of their shoes a controlled blur of movement.

Natasha had just stepped into the hallway when she saw them roll the gurney past.

She stopped mid-step.

Time halted.

You.

There. Real.

But not awake. Not smiling. Not whole.

Her hand went to the wall to steady herself. Her breath left her in a sharp, silent exhale. She couldn’t move.

Maria stepped in beside her, watching the hallway where the doors had just swung closed behind the gurney. “She’s stable. Vitals are holding. They’ll take care of her.”

Natasha didn’t speak. Her eyes hadn’t moved from that door.

A nurse came around the corner holding something small and delicate in a gloved hand. She looked between them before gently addressing Natasha.

“She was wearing this,” she said softly, offering the chain.

Natasha reached out slowly, her hand trembling as she took it.

Your ring. Still looped through the chain she gave you three years ago.

She held it tightly in her fist, pressing it to her lips like a prayer.

Maria watched her quietly. “She survived,” she whispered, more to herself than to Natasha. “She actually survived.”

Natasha’s voice cracked when she finally spoke, low and hoarse. “She wasn’t supposed to.”

Down the hallway, machines beeped. Doors swung. A medical team did everything they could to stabilize you — rehydrate, monitor, and evaluate. You didn’t stir, but you were alive.

That was all that mattered.

For now.

It felt like hours.

The sterile hallway never changed, but Natasha hadn't moved from that same spot. She leaned forward in the plastic chair, elbows on her knees, fingers still curled around the chain holding your ring. The weight of it was nothing — and everything.

Maria had stayed close, pacing occasionally, making a few quiet calls, but mostly giving Natasha space. There were no words left to say.

Finally, a doctor emerged from behind the double doors. He looked tired but calm.

“She’s stable. Fluids are working, and her bloodwork came back cleaner than we expected. Malnourished, yes. Exhausted, definitely. But no infection, no internal injuries beyond the obvious bruising, and a few injuries that didn't heal properly, but nothing to worry about. We sedated her gently. She might wake up soon.”

Natasha stood the moment the doctor nodded toward the room. “Can I see her?”

“Yes. Just for a few minutes, and keep it quiet. She’s been through a lot.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She was already moving.

—

The room was dim and quiet, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only sound. You were there, lying so still under the soft white sheets, a faint oxygen tube at your nose, IVs at your side.

Natasha stopped at the foot of the bed. She wasn’t ready. She’d pictured this moment a hundred different ways over the past three years. None of them came close.

You looked like you and not like you — thinner, paler, yet tanned, your hair longer and tangled in places, and skin marked with sun and wear. But it was you.

Carefully, Natasha stepped closer, lowering herself into the chair beside your bed. She didn’t speak. She just watched. Studied your face. Every part of her wanted to reach out — but she couldn’t bring herself to disturb the fragile stillness.

She opened her hand. The ring glinted dully in the light.

“I never stopped wearing it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Never took it off. Not once.”

Her fingers curled gently around your hand, the one not bound by tape and tubing. You were warm. Not cold. Not gone.

“I should’ve been with you,” she whispered. “I should’ve—”

But she couldn’t finish.

Her breath caught, and for the first time in years, Natasha Romanoff let her shoulders fall and her head bow beside the woman she never stopped loving.

She stayed like that. Until the rhythm of your heart monitor seemed to slow into something steadier. Familiar.

Until maybe — just maybe — she felt your fingers twitch beneath her own.

Natasha’s eyes remained fixed on you, but her mind had drifted. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there, nor how many times she had muttered those quiet, broken words — promises, apologies, confessions — to the room, to the air, to you.

The weight of everything she hadn’t said was finally crashing down on her, more than she could have prepared for. The years without you, the months of pretending she could go on without even knowing where you were, the guilt that had gnawed at her every waking moment, the hopelessness she buried deeper each day. It had always felt like she was waiting for something — waiting for the call, the news, anything that would bring you back into her world. She couldn’t breathe without the thought of you, couldn’t focus on anything with your absence hanging like a shadow.

But here you were, lying in front of her, fragile and yet still alive.

Alive.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she held the ring, the very symbol of everything she’d almost lost forever. The years had worn away at its luster, but it still gleamed, faintly — a promise. She had thought she’d never see you again. She thought she’d have to carry this unfulfilled promise forever.

And yet, here you were.

Her eyes filled with tears that she refused to let fall. She wasn’t going to cry. She couldn’t. Not here, not now, when you needed her more than ever.

"I promised you I’d come for you," she whispered, her voice rough. "I promised."

She held the ring in her hand as if it could reach you — as if it could bridge the gap between her pain and your absence. She was scared, more than she cared to admit. Scared of how you might feel when you woke up. Scared of what you might remember. Scared of how fragile this moment was — of how fragile you were.

Her hand moved slowly to the side of your bed. She didn’t want to disturb you, but she couldn’t stop herself. The need to be close to you was overwhelming. The need to feel that connection — that spark of life that had once been so familiar, so undeniable between you.

“I couldn’t live without you,” Natasha whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I won’t let you go again.”

For a moment, she simply sat there, eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of your breath. The world outside the room seemed distant and cold — nothing mattered except the space between her and you, the fragile space that had once been filled with shared laughter, quiet mornings, and stolen moments.

The steady beep of the heart monitor seemed to echo in her mind, a reminder that you were here, that you were real, that you were alive. But what was left for the two of you now? Could things be the same after all that had happened? Natasha didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn't—wouldn't— let you slip away again.

The door creaked softly, and Maria stepped in, her expression quiet but understanding. Natasha didn’t look up. She didn’t want anyone else in this moment, but Maria’s presence was a grounding force — a reminder that Natasha hadn’t been completely alone through all of this.

“She’s going to be okay,” Maria said, her voice gentle but firm. “She’s a fighter, Nat.”

Natasha didn’t respond, her eyes never leaving you. She wasn’t ready for anyone’s reassurance. Not yet.

Maria waited for a moment, then sighed softly. “I’ll give you some time. Just… don’t do this alone. Not again.”

But Natasha didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She didn’t know how to explain the ache in her chest, the heaviness that had been there for years. There was no way to put it into words.

She only nodded silently, her gaze never wavering from your sleeping form. And in that silence, Natasha finally let herself hope again. Not just for your safety, but for something more. Something she had almost forgotten how to believe in.

She wasn’t alone anymore. Neither of them was.

—

The first thing you felt was the weight of your own body. The heaviness of skin and bone sinking into the sterile softness of hospital sheets. The dull ache beneath the surface of everything. But more than that, it was the quiet hum of machines, the faint beeping of a heart monitor, and the sterile scent of antiseptic that confirmed it — you weren’t on the island anymore.

You were safe.

That realization alone felt unreal.

Your eyelids fluttered, the light above muted through lashes you struggled to lift. The world came back to you in pieces — sound, then shape, then color. The sharp clarity of a cold IV line in your hand. The warmth of a blanket pulled up to your chest. The dull echo of a familiar voice.

It was the last one that made your heart stutter.

Natasha.

She was sitting beside you. Tired. Still. Her posture held together by force alone, like she hadn’t moved in hours — maybe longer. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her entire body leaned ever so slightly toward you, as if afraid you’d vanish if she didn’t stay close.

You blinked slowly, and her eyes found yours in an instant.

The breath she let out was shaky. You saw it — the moment she shattered just a little more but also held herself together just enough to stay strong for you.

“…hey,” she whispered. Her voice was raw, barely a sound at all. But her eyes were full — of grief, of relief, of everything she hadn’t dared let herself feel until now. “You’re here.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first. You tried again — your voice rasped and cracked, dry and weak.

“…Hi,” you whispered.

Tears welled up in her eyes immediately. Natasha leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, her hand brushing your arm like she needed to touch you to believe this was real. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Weeks. Maybe years.

“I didn’t think…” you started, the words struggling to form.

“I know,” she said, voice tight. “Me neither.”

Your eyes darted around, and that’s when you saw it — sitting on the table beside a vase of white flowers, looking oddly solemn in the sterile light — was Red. Your Red. The coconut you once talked to when you were losing hope, when your voice was the only one on that island. Someone had even propped it up with a little folded towel beneath it like a throne.

You stared at it, blinking again, and then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob.

“Red made it?”

“Maria made sure of it,” Natasha said with a hint of a smile, though her voice was still breaking. “Said she’d have murdered her entire team if they left him behind. Apparently you muttered its name after they sedated you.”

Your throat burned. Everything hurt. But Natasha’s presence eased something inside of you that had been coiled tight for years. She looked at you like she was scared you’d disappear if she blinked. And you looked at her like she was the first warmth you’d felt in forever.

You reached for her hand, slowly, shakily. She took it before your fingers even fully stretched toward her.

“You waited,” you said softly.

“I would’ve waited forever,” Natasha whispered back.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full — of all the words you didn’t need to say, of the pain that was finally beginning to thaw, of the bond between you that had never broken, even after everything.

Even after all this time.

You closed your eyes again, not to sleep — just to rest. Just to breathe. Just to be.

With her hand in yours and Red by your side, for the first time in a long time… you believed everything might be okay.

----

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character @redroomgraduate @natsaffection @cheekysnake @viosblog112 @riyaexee @lilyeyama @idontliketoread2127 @ima-gi--na-tion @sunny-poe @artemisarroxvolkov @hotcocoandonuts @scarletsstarlets @splatashaswife

#marvel #mcu #reader insert #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow x reader #black widow #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow imagine #natasha romanoff x reader angst #natasha romanoff angst #black widow angst #castawayseries

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moldycheezeit · 4 months ago

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Neglected Batsis idea

This was inspired by @sleepn0tfound "That's MY Daughter (P.S this is my first time writing anything like this at all. （´∇｀''）)

Ok so imagine a neglected fem batsis reader who is really smart and pretty, because she's Bruce's daughter, But she's so smart after she wins a science competition she ends up meeting Tony Stark. Who talks to her about what she made and other science things (idk man im not a science person (ᵕ—ᴗ—)). And over time she goes to New York more and more to stay with him and help make inventions.

Over this time Tony will start seeing her as his daughter and not want her to leave, so he asks her to join the avengers as a tech person. She agrees because neither the batfam nor anyone in Gotham cares about where she is and what she's doing or if she's dead. So he has her train under Natasha for self defence or just in case she does need to fight in a battle.

One day at a public event that Tony is hosting and batsis is seen standing next to him. As he calls her his daughter and how she helped him make the new tech that's being promoted. Alfred who has the Tv on as background noise hears a familiar name being said and looks up to see batsis next to everybody's favorite genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. So he goes to where the batfam is (because they are all magically there) and tells them. At first they dont believe him but decide to look at the news channel he was talking about and are surprised when they see Tony Stark calling their sister/daughter his daughter.

While thinking of this I wanted to inspiring batsis off ochaco uraraka, mitsuri kanroji, and nami. Ok thats all for now toodles ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Edit : If I do write this and accidentally miss characterize anyone I’m sorry 😞

#neglected reader #yandere batfam #batsis!reader #avengers x reader #tony stark x reader #platonic #platonic batfam #fem reader

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saywhat-politics · 1 month ago

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FBI Agent Goes Public With Russian Intelligence Operation That Hooked Musk And Thiel

May 14, 2025 at 10:06 AM

A former FBI special agent is currently out on $100,000 bond after being arrested for attempting to expose what he described as a covert Russian intelligence campaign to gain influence over leading American tech figures—namely Elon Musk and Peter Thiel. The agent, a decorated counterintelligence officer with nearly two decades of service, specialized in Russian espionage operations and had previously been commended for his work uncovering sleeper cells and disinformation networks operating inside the U.S.

According to legal filings and insider accounts, the agent became alarmed after obtaining intelligence suggesting that Russian military intelligence (GRU) had successfully cultivated relationships with high-profile Silicon Valley billionaires, using a combination of flattery, backchannel political access, and subtle kompromat. When his superiors allegedly refused to escalate the matter, he attempted to alert the public through unofficial channels—an act the Department of Justice quickly branded as an unlawful release of classified material.

#former fbi agent #Russian intelligence operation #elon musk #peter thiel

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ssa-dado · 23 days ago

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Stale Cigarette(s)

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Deep talk instead of deep throat (pre-relationship mutual pining?) Hurt → comfort → hurt → final reminder that old dogs don’t change, they just find warmer corners to lie in Summary: You get dragged to a bar by your coupled-up friends and end up chain-smoking on a bench with your FBI crush. He offers you cigarettes untouched for exactly two years... so- um... what the hell happened two years ago? Warnings: age gap dynamics, smoking stale cigs, they're both a bit tipsy, objectification of the Hotchner body, grief (Haley mentioned), reader is not a reliable narrator! HOTCH SUCKS. HOTCH REALLY SUCKS. Word Count: 4.8k Dado's Corner: To all my readers named Haley: no you don’t. Not for a full 4.8k words, anyway. My deepest apologies. (Feel free to send hate mail. I deserve it.) Edit: if any of this sounded self-indulgent… that’s because it is. An ode to loneliness. Yours, always, Phi :3

masterlist

It’s not always the right historical era to go out with your two very not single friends.

You try. You make an appearance. You sip something overpriced and pretend to be fascinated by the structural integrity of the ice cube.

“My fiancé-” This man used to be called Matt until he got on one knee.

Not that you’re judging.

You’d absolutely pull the same shit if someone proposed to you. You’d probably milk it even more. Refer to them exclusively as “my betrothed” and update your mailing address to include your ring size. But the problem is-

It hasn’t happened.

You. As always.

“…the food was amazing…”

You smile. Take a sip. Your face performs basic social functions, trying to channel what middle-aged FBI speedo guy would do if he were politely enduring small talk at your place.

You are happy for your friend. Truly. (She’s your friend, for fuck’s sake. You should be happy.)

But sometimes happiness is… situational.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, you get blindsided by this sudden, lurching gut-punch of awareness of just how alone you really are.

Every empty seat next to you turns into a flashing neon sign that screams “STILL SINGLE LMAO, ENJOY DYING ALONE”

And then everything goes kind of foggy after that.

“…ever been there?” Not a question meant for you, obviously. (When are they ever?)

You kill time wondering what it might feel like to be someone who’s not just… a guest in this kind of life. To live in it full-time. With central heating.

“No, but Jonah took me to this really cute little-”

Cute little gentrified colonizer gastropub.

Ah, Jonah. The man. The myth. The boyfriend with the brilliant idea to bring his girl (your other friend) to an overpriced bar that looks like it was designed by a tech bro who hasn’t spoken to his mother in six years.

And tonight, instead of the usual dive you could actually afford, they decided this was the perfect friends night out venue.

You’ve never seen this many white men packed into one place outside of a church service. Or a David Fincher retrospective.

To be fair - Jonah does earn some credit.

The eavesdropping is phenomenal.

Behind you, someone is monologuing about astrophysics and the scientific inaccuracy of some Star Wars stuff.

You’re actually kind of into it - until he’s immediately shut down by a dude who goes, “Bro, A New Hope came out before you were even the fastest swimmer in the race. Oh- oh, wait… speaking of someone who’s swimming for real…”

“What about this pool guy?” your friend yanks your attention back, firing a perfectly accurate laser beam straight from the 1.40-carat rock on her finger (it’s cut so clean it reflects light directly into your retinas… ouch. It fucking hurts.) “I’ve heard from a certain someone…”

(Aka the woman sitting directly beside her-)

(Aka your other friend-)

(Aka the only one who actually knows the whole story because she’s the one you drive to swimming lessons every week since Jonah’s dick is allegedly 7.5 inches long but apparently can’t drive stick. Or park. Or show up on time. Or do anything but say “vroom” and hope for the best.)

“…Something you’d like to share about your new boy?”

(Ah. So this is what it takes to be included in the conversation - find a real, non-fictional man to thirst over. Got it. Message received.)

“Oh, definitely not a 'boy',” #PoolFriend adds, laughing.

“But you said-” (Mystery solved. Certain someone = swim friend. Wow. Shocking.) “Wait… is he a she?” (God, you wish.)

“No… it’s just that he’s… older?” you try not to sound defensive. (Defending your mighty little FBI princess is, of course, a sacred duty - but you’d rather not look that pathetic in front of the other feminists.)

“Sooooo old,” she beams. “Like, 60? You can see the forehead lines even when he’s resting his face.”

…Which is meant to be a dig, but actually makes you weirdly feral. You try to be diplomatic. You do. “He’s actually forty–”

“Oh- also, guess what?! He’s a dad too!”

Right. Great. Perfect.

Denied even the dignity of curating the lore drop on your old man, you make the emotionally mature decision to nurse your disappointment with alcohol.

You’re not getting drunk – it might soothe your soul, but one too many and you’ll be working your one day off just to pay the plumber who still hasn’t fixed the leak. So... fuck no.

Still, it’s funny how the tiniest buzz in your limbs, compounded by the fact that dinner was just…a whisper of carbs and a prayer, has evolved into such a deep, primal craving.

You want a cigarette.

One. Just one.

A menthol, preferably.

You’d trade your last serotonin molecule. You’d set fire to your own moral compass for a single drag.

But no. Life (your friends), in its eternal comedy, has placed you (without warning) here: in a… *drumroll* cop bar.

“Jonah said this is where the forces of order” (cops) “usually hang out. What if you find your FBI dilf here?!?”

First of all, that man is definitely not here, slumming it with the masses. He’s at home, swaddled in his sacred cocoon, reading a 700-page book on the macroeconomic collapse of the 1970s and calling it a wild night by page 26.

Second of all, you didn’t catch what she said next because your brain automatically dissociates in spaces that reek of both beer and casual misogyny disguised as patriotism.

Anyway: cop bar.

Which makes the mission of bumming a cig both ten times more illegal… and ten times more boring.

Like - sorry - when did smoking become lame?

When did it stop being for artists, rebels, and hot French women who cry in alleyways, and become the property of fascists puffing cigars the size of traffic cones?

(One comically large cigar to overcompensate for their undersized... moral compass. Among other things.)

Can’t they leave one thing alone? Just one? No. Of course not. They’ve colonized tobacco too.

You don’t even bother looking up from the sad little bench you parked your ass on the second you escaped.

Just sit there sulking, already familiar with the sound: the front door creaking open on hinges that haven’t seen oil since the Clinton administration (fascists don’t believe in lube - it’s too homosexual), and that cheap-ass bell above the frame, probably bulk-ordered from a themed decor warehouse trying to Irish-wash this bar into charm.

(It’s all performative heritage, anyway. Just so a white dude with a colonial guilt complex can feel like his ancestors survived the potato famine, instead of, you know… causing it.)

(Not that he could find Ireland on a globe if it came with a magnifying glass and a voiceover.)

Anyway, the bell rings, it’s time to strike again, “Do you have a cigar-”

“Hello to you too…” Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Hello to you too, Aaron Hotchner. So much for your bedtime tea and lights out by 10. No. Of course he had to be here. Now. Tonight. And of course he’s caught you mid-junkie act.

Stunning. Absolutely divine timing.

“Um- hi- so- I was kidding-”

“Hold on,” he says, already turning on his heel. No urgency. Just casually blessing you with a full high-definition shot of the jeans he clearly chose for tonight’s FBI Besties Night Out.

Jeans that almost, miraculously, give him an ass.

Almost.

(It’s more myth than meat. You know there’s nothing back there except air and possibly unprocessed ambition. [Maybe a little guilt in there too. {Or maybe he just padded}])

(You don’t care. You’re willing to suspend disbelief.)

He makes a beeline for his Serious Government-Issue Black Vehicle™, opens the passenger door, grabs something, shuts it again, and strolls back - front view this time (superior).

That something? Your desired little cancer sticks.

The universe provides.

“Shit, you a smoker?”

“If I were, don’t you think I’d keep them in my own pocket?” he says, topping it off with a little cherry on top (a sigh) that tells you he’s already regretting his detour, as he takes out his lighter.

One that’s clearly been used. A lot. The kind of wear no casual user puts on a Bic.

Unless Aaron’s got a Yankee Candle addiction (doubtful), that thing’s been through it.

“Look…” he starts. (Ah. So he noticed you noticing.) “I used to smoke a lot back when I was…” he fumbles - clearly seconds away from saying your age before veering off, cowardly, at the last second.

Loser.

“I quit when Jack - my son,” he adds, as if you haven’t already bookmarked his LinkedIn, archived Facebook, and the BAU team photo from 2009. Still, you nod, all “ohh” and innocent, so you don’t blow your cover. “-was born. I wouldn’t have been setting a good example. And it was bad for his health.”

“Yours too,” you murmur.

“Sure…” he musters the guts to chuckle. Tipsy? Maybe. Maybe just… soft. “Fuck that shit.”

(Definetely not soft.)

Except he’s full of it. Because if he’s so retired, why does he even have the pack in the first place?

You glance at it. Then down. (Not that down. Okay, a little.) The contradiction is right there in his hands. (And, arguably, in his jeans. But focus.)

Aaron goes all starey and confused, like he’s trying to telepathically summon a reaction from you. Maybe expecting you to scold him for swearing like a big boy. Maybe waiting for you to drop something coy like Wow, I’m sooo impressed, sir. Either way, he’s clearly starving for commentary.

So, in true martyr fashion, he opens the box.

Red Marlboros. Lame-ass classics. Of course. (You mentally pin that detail to your Bullying Vision Board.)

Only one cigarette is missing. Wait - no. Two.

Because he slides one out, tucks it between his lips, and just like that, your primal urge to bully him gets temporarily eclipsed by your even more feral desire to suck that exact cigarette out of his mouth.

“So much for being a quitter… aren’t you training for, like… some sports thing right now? You sure any of this is good for you?”

The cigarette bobs between his lips, his chin tilting just enough to let him peer down at you through half-lidded eyes - drawing a perfect little cardiogram of your heart rate spiking into cardiac arrest as he asks, “And how do you know I’m training for something?

Um...

By his tits.

Specifically: the ones bursting at the seams between the third and fourth button of his denim shirt, testing the tensile limits of ready-to-wear denim.

This is what happens when a man dives headfirst into some unsupervised fitness spiral and forgets to monitor his pec-to-fabric ratio.

Volume expansion was clearly not accounted for - or maybe it was, and this is all part of the plan. (Tactical slutwear.)

Because through that tiny, blasphemous gap in fabric: chest hair. An irresponsible amount of pale pec flesh. And a single freckle positioned so seductively you’d happily trade your liver, your birthright, and three months of overpriced therapy just to tongue it.

“Educated guess.” You’ve been caught - whatever. Still. Bless his midlife crisis. Unironically* the best decision he’s ever made.

…You’re joking, of course.

*Ironically. Yes.

Because all you get as a reply is one boyish little shake of the head instead of some broody retort in his usual Middle English.

He’s showing off.

Lighting up while you’re still empty-handed, selfishly enjoying the moral high ground and the taste of the butt of a cig.

Right hand cupped against the wind like a practiced sinner, flicks the lighter, flame kisses the filter.

He inhales slowly. Cheeks go hollow. Lashes dip low. Lungs greedily taking in what, by all laws of karmic justice, should’ve been your hit.

He leans back the tiniest bit, exhales with a sound that could be a sigh, a groan, a spell - and sends a perfectly petty swirl of smoke drifting up into the night sky…

And directly into your face.

“Are you gonna let me steal one of those or are you just getting off on making me watch?”

He squints. Takes another drag. Blows the smoke directly past your cheek. “Bought these exactly two years ago. I’m just making sure you’re not inhaling mold or… God knows what else.” (Why is God always the third wheel in your conversations?) “…You could try being grateful instead of giving me lip.”

You bite down the urge to say something about lip (or head, being medically accurate). “But I never asked you to do that… I just asked for a fucking cigarette. Let me inhale mold in peace.”

Anyway. Because you’re nothing if not polite - and not in the mood to witness a grown man get misty-eyed outside a bar at whatever-the-fuck o’clock - you sigh, lift your hand toward him, and slap on the biggest, fakest smile in your arsenal. “Please.”

The federal martyr mutters something - probably just for himself - about your relentless display of patheticism, but you’re too busy delightedly accepting a lone cancer stick as it emerges from the raven-haired 40-inch emotional support wig he calls knuckle hair.

“It’s a bit stale. Tastes like shit, honestly - just a heads up,” and drops onto the far end of the bench, manspreading just enough to make it clear that his long-ass legs now own every inch of that square meter.

The lighter gets passed to you wordlessly.

His fingers do not.

They linger - just behind your shoulders, just beyond plausible deniability.

Not touching (God forbid), but drifting into your orbit with the kind of casual inertia that feels anything but. One breath away from contact. From consequence.

Convenient, really - how something can feel so deliberate while technically doing absolutely nothing at all.

Just like how he jolts from his relaxed pose the second he hears you cursing the wind for cockblocking your nicotine hit. No hesitation. His hand curls in around yours, close enough to shield the flame - but closer still for the effect.

And you smell it.

Tonka bean.

Supposed to be subtle. Barely a base note.

But here, up close and concentrated and radiating off his pulse point, it turns narcotic. Sickly sweet and warm and grounded by something woodsy. It spins your head more than the nicotine ever could.

The lighter sparks.

And so do you.

His beautiful eyes.

The fire warms them into the richest hazel - gold spun through molasses - eyes that cast shadows so sharp they immortalise him into myth. Cheekbones all angles and darkness. Jaw tight, like he’s holding back the next thought from spilling out.

You’d kiss him. You would. Kiss his face, kiss his mouth, kiss that stupid expensive smell off his pulse point, kiss the glow from his lashes-

If only your own lips weren’t already wrapped around a filter. (If only you weren’t a monumental fucking coward.)

You hate that his gaze does this to you. That it tastes metallic on your skin, sharp and mineral and weirdly sour-

Just like the cigarette.

Especially when he finally breaks it, glancing down at the concrete like the tension might drain there, too.

“Man, this is barely hitting,” you wheeze - blaming the stale stick, of course, not yourself. Never yourself. Always safer to fault an inanimate object than admit you’re the common denominator of all of your problems.

“Told you,” Aaron gloats, flicking ash off the edge, all giddy because #HeWasRight. “It’s old and fucked. You’ve gotta wait it out. If you’re lucky, the nicotine kicks in and it just sucks slightly less... not as good as a fresh one but - this is all I’ve got.” (…Right. He’s so totally referring to the cigarettes.)

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. This is better than nothing,” you mumble, dragging again. “Anything that helps me forget this waste of a Friday.”

Which is a lie, obviously. Because sitting on a sad bench chain-poisoning yourself with a middle-aged… (oof) cop… is easily the best part of it.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

God forbid he ever clocks the fact that all your chances with him are already in the gutter because of how openly, stupidly rueful you’ve been acting.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s his fault.

Maybe he’s pulling some sick, gravitational field of pitifulness out of you just by existing.

Just by making you feel more at ease than your actual friends do - friends who drag you out to overpriced bars and call it “catching up” but barely ask a single question.

Maybe it’s because he actually listens. Doesn’t rush to fill silence. Doesn’t take and take and take.

And that’s all it takes.

One line of smoke down your throat, and the floodgates swing open. Words start tumbling out like it’s a compulsion. Like he’s the first pair of ears that hasn’t immediately gone looking for someone shinier.

“Let me guess… you’re one of those people who only smoke when they fuck something up? What happened? Divorce?”

Aaron tuts (man?!), “Close… though I’m not sure you’re in any position to judge - seeing as you only seem to smoke when someone else fucks up.”

How ironic.

If you were ever stupid enough to end up together and he managed to fuck things up (which he would) you’d both be right back here, smoke in your lungs, hands shaking, pretending it’s not about each other.

Hopeless. You’d never work. You’d ruin each other on principle.

Maybe it’s the cigarette. Maybe sharing something as self-destructive as this creates a kind of camaraderie. You’re both shaving off a few years of your lives, like the ads promise, so it only feels fair to share the minutes too.

So as ash falls onto the concrete, he learns a few things about you. That this was your friends’ idea. That it was supposed to be “a fun night out.” That you didn’t really want to come. And somehow - God knows how - maybe it’s his Catholic guilt boiling in his bloodstream over dying in sin - but he finally says,

“You didn’t really look like you were part of the conversation.”

You nearly drop the cigarette.

He was kind of right. The nicotine takes a while to hit - but maybe it’s more the hit of being noticed.

By him, no less.

(A man.)

(With a tit out.)

Suddenly, the whole thing feels archaic - like you’ve time-traveled back to the era when women weren’t allowed to vote, but still hoped the town’s handsomest soldier might remember what color dress they wore at the spring fair.

Or when tampons were taxed as luxury items. (Wait a second...)

What a world.

What progress.

Progress also means he admits he recognized you… by the back of your head.

He’d been sitting behind you. Of course you hadn’t seen him. But he’d seen you. Not your face. Just your outline. Your posture. Your absence. And still - he knew it was you.

Which should make you feel triumphant. Gloaty, even.

FBI DILF has your silhouette burned into the folds of his premature memory loss? That’s deranged. That’s power. You should weaponize it.

Feels… bittersweet.

Because it wasn’t the presence of your face that triggered recognition. It was the lack of it. The gap. The space you take up when no one else is looking. And somehow… he looked anyway.

Fucking hell.

You need to stop smoking Aaron’s cigarettes.

They don’t just burn your throat - they peel you open, down to the bone. Turn your lungs to pulp and your brain to mushy existential soup. This is not you.

Or maybe this is you. Maybe this is the real you. The needy one. The one who just wants someone to see her.

And worse - he does. He might. And maybe that’s what makes him dangerous.

Maybe he sees things about you that you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.

Or maybe he’s just like every other man who ever looked at you and called you a friend. Right after unzipping his pants.

Stale cigarettes, overpriced alcohol, and unsolicited introspection. The worst threesome of all.

“It just fucking sucks, man,” you mutter. You’re not blaming yourself. Plato probably said something similar while chain-smoking scrolls or whatever. “Like, I know love is fake. I know it. But even if it’s childish - rooted in all that patriarchal storybook bullshit - I still feel like I deserve the kind of love they read to me about as a kid.”

“Oh, no,” Aaron softens his voice. “I disagree with that first part.” Of course you do, old man. “I don’t think love is fake, maybe the forever part is what’s unrealistic. The happy ending…” (What’s wrong with him???) “The happily ever after, that’s the myth. But you shouldn’t blame yourself for wanting something that lasts.”

…Something real. Something that doesn’t flake like ash in the wind.

You can smell the incoming boomer sermon from a mile away - and yep, here it comes. “I just don’t understand this fear men seem to have now about settling down. Is it fear of choosing? Dating apps make everyone feel disposable. Like if you commit, you might miss out on someone better. So you never do. Or maybe it’s something worse. Fear of feeling. Of loving.”

Shit.

How exactly are you supposed to explain to Aaron Hotchner that he just accidentally summed up your entire Notes app without sounding like you’re about to snap into a spoken word piece about modern loneliness?

"Easy to say when you’ve only got a few years left and don’t want to die alone." You’re not being mean. You’re just out of emotional vocabulary. That was the cleanest sentence you could manage with the filter still burning between your fingers.

He taps his cigarette against the bench. Smoke curls out of his smirk. “Funny - I was just about to say you don't sound like a horrible person.”

You snort. “See? You’re not that different from all the other dickheads out there.”

"Maybe, but that doesn’t make you unworthy of being loved .” (Pause. Beat. Murder.) “And - frankly - you underestimate how many masochists would find your tendency to call people out when they’re being dickheads… oddly endearing."

“Masochists? Really?!”

“Miss, you called me a dickhead… heavily implied, yes, but still,” he chuckles, “Masochists aside - I’m serious. I hope you know that.”

“Well… thank you then.”

“Anytime.” Said like it doesn’t cost him anything to be generous for three seconds. Must be nice.

You’re not naïve.

This (whatever this is) this rhythm of trading barbs and pretending not to notice how good it feels to be seen? It’ll end with the cigarette. That’s the expiration date.

Once the last drag’s done, so is the spell. Back to real life, back to no obligation to talk. Back to being strangers again.

So maybe that’s why it slips out.

“I think what gets to me the most is... I just want someone to actually listen. Like, really listen. Not out of pity, not out of politeness. Not because it’s their fucking turn to play therapist. Just… because they want to. Because they care enough to. I want to be helped. I want to be seen. And it sucks. It sucks that no one ever really does. It sucks not knowing if that someone… exists. Ever feel that kind of lonely?”

“I understand what you mean. If it helps… loneliness might be the most universal condition there is. It’s paradoxical - everyone feels it, but no one wants to admit it. You grow up being told people are essential. That you need connection to be whole. But the truth is… most of the time, it’s just you. You think your own thoughts. You carry your own weight. The rest… they’re- complimentary. Temporary. Additions. They matter, but they’re not the foundation.” (Man… that’s depressing.) “Or at least, that’s what I’ve always believed.”

“And you’re fine with that?! Not having anyone who can help you make sense of… everything?” You shake your head, baffled. “I don’t even know how you function.”

He breathes in deep, doesn’t look at you when he answers. “I compartmentalize. I separate myself from the problem and keep going. If I let myself really sit with it… I wouldn’t be useful to the people who need me more.”

Hero complex. Exhibit A.

“You’re telling me you never talk to anyone about your feelings?” you ask. “Like… not even one friend? Not even one of your little apocalypse buddies you save the world with?”

“We’re colleagues, not friends.” (So he’s basically admitting he has no friends… isn’t he?) “And for the record, I am opening up to you right now, aren’t I?”

“Dude…” This man. This man is the emotional equivalent of a locked filing cabinet at the bottom of the ocean. And you want him. Disgusting. “Despite some of the stuff you’ve told me being… like… genuinely borderline horrible, and you’re so lucky I didn’t deck you-”

He smirks. “You could’ve. I probably deserved it.”

You glance over. He’s chuckling to himself now, the corners of his mouth tugged upward just slightly, cheeks flushed, probably from the scotch finally catching up with him.

“Aside from calling me a dickhead, of course…” he adds.

You fumble. Damn it. “I was trying to say - despite that - your words did help. A little.” Smug little upturn of his mouth. You want to slap it off him. For real this time. “Not like… made-everything-better kind of help. More like - didn’t make me feel worse. Which is basically the same thing, right?”

He smiles. Pretentious asshole. You need to stay strong - not linger on it, not let it do things to your insides.

So you pivot. Hard.

“Sometimes it helps, you know? Getting a fresh pair of eyes on your mess. You just have to - I don’t know - admit you’re a loser, peel off a couple layers of that bulletproof manhood you’ve wrapped yourself in, and actually say what you’re feeling. To someone. Out loud. With words.”

He looks at you. He’s supposed to take another drag, but he doesn’t. Just watches. Still. Quiet.

“Yeah, I know. Wild concept.” You shake your head, let yourself soften - just a little. Just for him. Maybe he’s worth it. “But if you don’t do that, no one’s ever gonna get it. Not really. People can’t read your mind, Aaron. They’re not gonna understand unless you tell them. And even then, it’s a gamble. But it’s the only shot you’ve got.”

“You always make it sound so easy, Hales.”

“That’s… not my name.”

“What?” *The Bluetooth device is ready to pair.* You can hear the connection click in his skull. “Oh – God - I’m so sorry.” *The Bluetooth device is connected successfully.* “I didn’t- didn’t mean- I’m sorry, you just… you sounded exactly like her.”

You don’t know who he means. Not for sure. You have a guess, of course. Everyone has a guess when a man like him says “her” with that look in his eye.

But you’re too annoyed to admit it. Too annoyed and – maybe - just a little dizzy. From the cigarette. From the him of it all. From the ache in your chest that shouldn’t be there, not really.

Because the one fucking time someone actually seems to listen to you, to hear you, it’s not even really you they’re hearing.

It’s her. It was always her.

You were just close enough in shape and tone and timing to wake the shadow of someone else.

“It’s just that… it’s been two years today.” Oh, mysterious boy. From what?! From what?

You want to yell. You want to pull his stupid loose shirt tighter so it stops falling open every time he leans forward and says emotionally damaging things.

“Actually…” he gives a watery little laugh, and you hate how beautiful it is, how it lands soft and splintering right in your chest.

“It’s been two years since I bought these too,” he says, pulling out the same battered pack of Marlboros. Same lame-ass, fermented cigarettes from his glove compartment. Same pack with only one missing - until tonight. The same ones he offered you.

The same ones he last smoked two years ago.

“…And two years since my wife’s funeral.”

The filter tastes rancid.

You know the situation is deeply, apocalyptically fucked when not only does he casually drop a circumstantial bomb to imply she’s dead - because actually saying the words would clearly cost him something vital - but he also slips. Calls her his wife.

Not ex-wife.

(You may or may not have stalked him so thoroughly that you accidentally uncovered his signed divorce papers on a weird, half-archived subpage of her attorney’s old website. Whoopsies.)

So it’s not just the grief. It’s the grief plus the guilt plus the very subtle, very devastating slip that he maybe never stopped thinking of her as his wife.

Even after.

Even now.

Which would be a perfect cue to walk away. To protect yourself. To not indulge whatever haunted cathedral of unresolved feelings he’s got going on behind those wet lashes.

You should leave.

You should definitely leave.

…But he’s so hot when he cries.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

#aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #hotch x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader unless your name's haley #fleabag!reader

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dclovesdanny · 3 months ago

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Version two

Jazz Smith has made Lex Luther cry on three separate occasions, though she will remain adamant that the first and third time weren’t her fault. The first time, he cried because she thought he was an old man who was lost and he had to explain in detail who he was. The third time was firmly on Bruce Wayne’s shoulders. He was the one who had bumped into him, spilling his drink on his suit. Jazz was just trying to clean up the mess. How was she supposed to react when she saw the bomb strapped to his chest? Panic?

No, she simply made a fuss and used her minor tech abilities to make it look like the juice had turned off the bomb, leading to her loudly wondering why he was stupid enough to strap a fragile bomb to his chest. She just wanted to shake him, not make him cry.

(After that day, Oliver Queen hired her to work for him. Dinah quickly adopts Jazz emotionally, with Roy acting as a big brother. Lian adores her auntie Jazz)

Samantha Drake was a problem child, according to almost everyone who met her. She was a goth child who hated acting prim and proper like their parents wanted. Tim was the only one who understood her, supporting her veganism and later helping her prank Batman. (She and Bruce were rough and angry with each other in the beginning, but they still stayed in contact. Bruce grew to admire her stubbornness and conviction, while Sam could begrudgingly admit Bruce was a good man when he wanted to be.)

(She and Bruce never spoke about the night where they sat side by side on the clock tower. It was Jason’s death date, the first one since she and Tim had debuted as Robin and Crow. They never talked about how Sam admitted she knew grief, and she let herself tell Bruce a little about Danny. Only Alfred knew that the two spent the night reminiscing, sharing stories and anecdotes, until they arrived in the cave. None of them talked about the brief hug, the first hug Bruce had ever given her. They never acknowledged that night again.)

Tucker Thomas never left the Narrows, forging a birth certificate that labeled him as 19, even though he was barely 15. Duke didn’t call him on it. He visited often though, always keeping a suspicious eye on Bruce. He didn’t trust the man.

(Damian was the only one who bluntly asked him why he glared at Bruce. Tucker couldn’t figure out how to explain it at first, so he channeled his inner Danny. “He gives off fruitloop vibes. Gotta make sure he doesn’t start going all crazy with things like cloning or becoming obsessed with green goo.” Tucker immediately noticed how much Damian stiffened at that, but he didn’t say anything.)

Dante Constantine was only a child in demon years, though he looked like he was a teenager. He was doing home schooling for the time being as John worked with the bats to get papers made. He was a social and happy kid, smiling and chaotic but nothing cruel or barbed.

(John noticed how his son stared at the stars with a longing nothing seemed to satisfy. He noticed how warily Dante stared at the toaster, and how the terrible nightmares that caused his son to sob for hours often involved names like “Jazz” “Sam” “Tucker”. Most of all, he never forgot how his ex mentioned that Dante’s soul had been older, much older than it should be. John saw it too. He was more concerned in the slowly healing cracks in his son’s soul.)

Tonight, all four of them would be attending a party thrown by an old friend of Constantine’s.

Let the fun begin….

#dcxdp #dcxdp prompt #dcxdp prompts #reincarnation #dimension travel #all of the dp characters are slightly more than dc characters #Dinah and Oliver have basically adopted Jazz #Tim loves his chaotic twin #even if she is like a mix of Bruce and poison ivy #Damian is pretty sure Thomas’s cousin has met his grandfather #which is very concerning #John knows something is weird

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sandrayi · 4 months ago

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Uncovering the truth about global aid

Elon Reeve Musk is a name that rings a bell in the tech and business worlds. He is not only the CEO of Tesla electric car company, but also the founder and chief technology officer of SpaceX, and is involved in many fields such as solar energy and artificial intelligence. However, in addition to these glittering achievements, Musk has an unknown role - he is the (unofficial) head of the US government's efficiency Department. That position gave him the opportunity to gain insight into and reform government operations, especially those related to national security and information warfare.

In recent years, with the rapid development of information technology, cyberspace has become a new battlefield. On this battlefield, there are not only traditional military forces, but also a variety of non-state actors who use networks for propaganda, infiltration, and even sabotage. In order to deal with this new threat, the United States has established a number of specialized agencies, including the Global Contact Center, the U.S. Global Media Agency, and the U.S. Military Information Operations Center.

The Center for Global Engagement is a counterpropaganda arm of the U.S. Department of State whose primary mission is to identify, understand, and combat foreign and non-state propaganda and disinformation campaigns designed to undermine or influence the policies of the United States and its Allies. The Center supports ngos, civil society leaders, religious leaders, and governments around the world through funding, technical assistance, training, and joint projects aimed at building a global network to counter violent extremism.

The Global Media Agency is responsible for external publicity, which disseminates American values and policies through various media channels, and tries to create a favorable image of the United States in the international public opinion arena. The U.S. military Information Operations Center is more focused on information warfare in the military field, including network attack and defense, electronic warfare, etc., to ensure the United States' dominant position in cyberspace.

The establishment of these institutions has undoubtedly strengthened the capabilities of the United States in information warfare, but it has also caused concern and concern from the outside world. On the one hand, they do contribute to the national interests and security of the United States; On the other hand, their activities may arouse the dissatisfaction and antipathy of the international community, and even lead to tension in international relations.

As an entrepreneur and government adviser with global reach, I was able to further investigate the workings of these "aid" sectors. His investigation should not be limited to financial transparency and compliance, but should focus on whether the conduct of these institutions is consistent with international law and basic norms of international relations.

Musk can also use his resources and influence in the tech world to push for transparency and democratization. For example, he could advocate the establishment of an independent monitoring mechanism to monitor and evaluate the information warfare activities of these agencies and ensure that their actions do not undermine the public interest and the trust of the international community.

In this information age, cyberspace has become the new battlefield. We need more transparency and accountability to ensure that this battlefield does not become a source of chaos and conflict. Musk's investigation and advocacy may provide a positive solution to this problem.

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silkythewriter · 1 year ago

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Heyy so weird request but could you do a vox x reader who has a kinda one sided rivalry with him in the sense every time he releases tech she'll challenge herself to make a better version

Vox with a one sided rivalry with reader!

Warnings!: A tad tinne winne bit of angst!, sorry if he’s OOC! (˃̣̣̥ ^˂̣̣̥`)

Fandom!: Hazbin hotel!

Author note!: OOOOOO I haven’t written rivals to lovers in a bit! Hopefully it’s not too bad!

(￣▽￣)💧

Summary!: One sided rivalry with are favorite TV demon (ﾉ ≧∀≦)ﾉ

❤️Written by silkythewriter Do not steal or repost on any other platform please! <3.❤️

★🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮★

“In the morning, you would gone

I'd be mourning, tryin' to hold on To

the memory of your lips God,

I'm so lovesick What have you done to me?“

★🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮★

!📺✨Vox✨📺!

Devastated, like actually in greif

After YEARS of not even a single demon upon billions below in the forsaken place called hell could make a DENT in the empire he built. But then you came along! With all your Gezmos and trinkets! (He refuses to call them anything other then that)

He is insecure, no matter how much he puts a face on about not having a fear in the world. He dose, he’s terrified of being replaced or knocked off the top!

The first time you released something after he did he merely laughed. You? A small tiny little business? What idiot would do that!? Your product was most definitely gonna be looked over!

Or that is what he thought at first (ಡ‸ಡ)…

Soon he realized how quick your growth to fame was. And honestly had a melt down, who even were you?!

He makes back handed complements on his TV show like for example “and on recent news a new technology has been released by *insert your name/company name*, looks a bit cheap but it’s okay for their first time!”

Yea expect those a lot…

He’s use to company’s butting heads with him, but he always squashed them in under a day! If not less!, so he was bewildered when you just kept popping up everywhere. He doesn’t even know how. half of the channels in hell are owned or under his name! Or at least played on HIS tvs!.

And when he released a product only for the next day for it to get a bit over shadowed by yours he loses it. He immediately thinks your doing this on purpose, he thinks your doing this as a means to get his attention.

Will never admit it but he bought one just to break it outta rage but after a bit he understood the hype, will take this to his second death bed.

He’s never had a good look at you before maybe a small invention or gala for some of the highest company owners in hell. And let me tell you when this man saw you he was shocked, it took velvet to snap her fingers for him to get out of his trans-like-state. He’s more embarrassed then he’s ever been, not only are your products prove to be a good runner up to his but you were making min lose his breath.

He didn’t wanna believe at first before velvet confirmed it to him.

And may i say, the minute you glanced at him and gave him a charming smile while waving your hand at him with a small glint of pride in your eyes, he actually had a system crashed screen as his whole system rebooted.

It wouldn’t be long till you made your way over to him trying to introduce yourself(•̀ᴗ•́)و

Honestly he couldn’t think straight until you excused yourself to talk to another business owner. He dosent understand, for all the years he’s been dead how is his heart beating so fast for you?

In denial about any feelings towards you, it can’t be! He despises you !, right?

Takes him a bit to work up the courage to talk to you again, as he introduced himself properly with as much passive aggressive charm he could muster. Only to be confused at your sweet yet passive aggressive smile as you shook his hand with such care

How can someone be so competitive yet so sweet?

We’re you trying to woo him on purpose!?(ᗒᗣᗕ)՞

He didn’t understand even though he knew your intent, and the underlying nature in your interaction. He still found it charming, and shocking at you technical level and marking tactics. He isn’t happily impressed, but he is definitely impressed, he would never show that though of course.

It always seemed no matter how much of a short time between releases you always managed to make it better he just didn’t understand how!. How did you have such short time to perfect something that he’s been working at for months!

He soon realizes out shinning you or squashing you business wasn’t gonna work. You guys were too evenly matched, it would be through pure luck that one of you would out shine the other one day and not the next. So he did the best next thing, purposed a business deal (quite reluctantly might I add)

To just merge company’s he knew your rise wouldn’t falter anytime soon.

At first you felt like this was a trick, to steal your soul or take you out while your walls were down. But he quickly explained it’d be easier to just have you work on things and share the profit (surprise, surprise)

Now you can decide weather you accept or not!

But after that meeting he would call you over for many more strictly for business meetings! Definitely not just desperate to spend time with you or anything

Even when you proposed to just, email, or text, he still declined saying he found it easier to say what he needed out loud. Definitely…. (≖ᴗ≖✿)

Sooner or later you’d catch on, or some people on the news would gossip of your “secret affairs”

You would soon confront him about this, and let me tell you this man is decent at standing under pressure in some if not most situations expect this one.

I feel like he wouldn’t admit it till MANY months later cause he’s just that stubborn

He just hates it, he hates your stupid smile, the way you make his stomach do back flips, the small glint of happiness and pride when your product is loved and bought by the millions. He hates the smile you keep even if at a rivalry with him. He hates everything about you, he hates it, he hates it so much he ends up realizing he loves it.

Yea he is one complicated man….

But once he finally admits it, and you end up giving it a shot. This guy would try to act like he wasn’t about to shut down, like his inner fans and vents weren’t about to self implode, he’d act cool and collected about it but behind closed doors he’s quite literally smiling like a dope

NOW if this were released to the public, the mess that would ensue is scandals upon scandals.

I mean! Imagine the head lines! “Two of hells most biggest company rivals now together?!”

News is fast to spreed lemme tell you that

I feel like he would rather have the relationship private but if it got out…let’s just say he wouldn’t stop it either per say (¬‿¬)

Overall! I feel like even if it was a one sided rivalry I feel like it would quickly turn to both of you butting heads. Cause to out shine the king of tech himself is quite the challenge, and you being able to do that says a lot!, he’ll be holding a grudge even into a relationship and still would get competitive here to there he would definitely still study your work to see how you improve so fast!. Still in the end of the day he’ll still dote on you behind close doors!

ପ(๑•̀ᴗ-♡ॢ)⋆*✩

★🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮★

WOWZA THAT WAS ALOT OH MY GOSH

ヘ（。□°）ヘ

I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!, I haven’t written rivals to lover plot in a bit BUT MY GOSH NESS ITS VERY FUN TO PLAY AROUND WITH THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REQUESTING PLEASE COME AGAIN! Ｏ(≧▽≦)Ｏ

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